


The Road Less Traveled By

by UisceOneLove



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bisexual Ransom Drysdale, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Harlan Thrombey Lives, Low-Key Dom/sub Undertones, Pre-Relationship, Ransom Drysdale Being an Asshole, Ransom Drysdale Redemption, Slow Burn, Soft Ransom Drysdale, Which is completely unintentional but you know how it goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29718906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UisceOneLove/pseuds/UisceOneLove
Summary: If Harlan wants to leave Ransom to be on his own, fine. He'll show him just what Ransom Drysdale is capable of.or, where Ransom chooses to prove his abilities through means of the non-homicidal variety and finds himself becoming exactly what Harlan was hoping he would.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera & Harlan Thrombey, Marta Cabrera & Ransom Drysdale, Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale, Ransom Drysdale & Harlan Thrombey
Comments: 15
Kudos: 110





	The Road Less Traveled By

**Author's Note:**

> This thing. Man, this thing. So much longer than I expected coming into this fandom when I gave into my urges. There are already a handful of other fics I plan on doing. 
> 
> I have to thank ralsbecket for kindly offering to Beta this for me and doing a spectacular, hilarious job.
> 
> I also have to thank treesramblings for feeding my obsession for this fandom and pairing, they are probably one of the sole reasons any of my Knives Out work will get made and finished from this point on.
> 
> Enjoy!

Ransom was halfway to his car when he heard the unexpected sound of the front door opening. Even more surprising was the voice who called his name. 

Of fucking course. 

"What the hell do you want, Cabrera?" Ransom asked as he unlocked his car, making it clear he didn't have the time to spare. He wasn't going to stand around with the Brazilian Bambi after what his grandfather just told him.

"It's Harlan's birthday." Marta's frown held a contempt that Ransom knew she'd keep in check around his family. Neither of them bothered with that facade when it was just the two of them.

"I'm very fucking aware," he sneered, pulling open his car door with more force than necessary. "Sorry to skip out on the cake, but I'd rather not keep up grandad's game of charades."

The nurse's frown deepened; it really was a shame, with a face like hers. If Marta didn't throw it at him so often, her disinterest in fucking, Ransom would have loved to drive her into the trees and past the cameras, pull her into his lap, and tug on those braids until she was writhing on his dick. 

His grandfather may be too old to roll around with the hot nurse, but Ransom was in his prime and eager to use it. Maybe a good fuck would make his grandfather see that Marta wasn’t any better than the rest of them and cancel his bullshit plan of giving everything to her.

"Careful, Cabrera,” he jeered. ”Someone in my family could see you and think you're not a satisfied employee." 

"Harlan cares about you," Marta tried, the words sounding disappointed. 

Ransom had to scoff at that. "Sure, he does. That's what all the cleaning house is for, right?"

Marta's dark eyes widened. "What?"

"Oh, spare me the Snow White routine," he snapped. "You're Harlan's girl scout, best friend forever, Strawberry Shortcake, special charm bracelet's compadre. I call bullshit that he didn't tell you what he was planning tonight."

"I…" Marta faltered, rocking back a step under the weight of it. "He didn't--I don't know what you're talking about, Ransom." 

Ransom sidestepped, waiting for the wave of vomit, unwilling to fall victim to that projectile again. (It was a bitch to dry clean.) So when it took him a good few seconds to gather that she  _ wasn't _ vomiting birthday cake at him, it gave him pause.

Huh. "Shit," he mused, blinking at her. "He actually didn't tell you."

"What did he do, Ransom?" Marta asked, her voice low but not enough to hide the shaking. She actually looked… scared? Worried? 

He considered laying it out for her right there. He'd love to see her try and explain herself, but he already dodged one vomit-covered bullet tonight, Ransom wasn't looking to press his luck. 

"Go ask him yourself," he said before getting into his car. He left the nurse to shrink into nothing in his rearview mirror. 

Ransom sped home that night, weaving along the road without caring if there were state troopers sitting in wait for the opportunity to show off their badge of power. All he could think about was how his grandfather was giving everything to that bitch nurse, and somehow she didn't even know that he was going to do it.

What was her big plan here? What was  _ Harlan's _ plan? The infuriating lack of clarity was what drove Random to grab for the gin when he made it home. A special night deserved a special drink.

And another one.

And another.

Waking up with a hangover wasn't nearly bad enough to make him forget  _ why _ he had one. Ransom groaned at the pain and sucked it up, rolling out of bed and trudging to his kitchen to pull together a hair of the dog to calm the budding storm. He washed off the rest of the lingering pity party with a hot shower, then sat back with some freshly brewed coffee to think of his next steps.

The night of drinking left Ransom without the blinding rage he'd stormed out of Harlan's home with. While he'd been at the beginning of a dangerous train of thought, it'd all come to a deafening stop when Marta came after him. Her own confusion about Harlan's plan had been another thing to throw him.

Sitting there now in his own lavish modern home, Ransom could cross murder off of his list. He would be willing to circle back to it in the future, but for the time being, he wouldn’t want to stain his hands red. 

Unless that Nazi brat tempted him.

But with murder off the table, Ransom didn't have many other options. Seducing Marta, while admittedly a fun thought, would ultimately be a waste of time with that pure heart of hers. 

If he could convince her or Harlan to change the will, however, there might still be some wiggle room.

Ransom would figure it out as he went along. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

With that plan taking shape, Ransom shucked on his coat and strolled outside with a purpose. He should have expected the other cars parked outside the house when he got to his grandfather's. He wasn't the only one that was graced with a talking-to last night.

He was willing to put his plans aside to enjoy the show for a bit.

Ransom's stroll from the car was intervened by the rapid approach of his grandfather's mutts. He hated those dogs with a passion, found them to be nothing but a nuisance.

"No no no, get the fuck away from me!" he snapped, repeatedly sidestepping the hounds until he was away from their barking and able to get inside. 

Ransom heard shouts already coming from Harlan's office as soon as he was in the entryway. A gleeful smile spread across his face when he recognized Walt's voice, and he skipped into the hallway on his way to steal a pack of cookies from the pantry.

"Oh, Ransom," Fran said flatly when she came in with the remnants of Granddad's breakfast, "you're here now, too. I should have guessed."

"So lovely to see you, too, Francie," he greeted cheerfully. "Do you think you can do me a favor and grab me a nice cold glass of milk for these?"

Fran glared at him and stalked past to the kitchen, doing nothing to diminish Ransom's good mood. He moved back into the hallway, seeing Marta standing just outside of the library. 

Her hair was down to her shoulders, waves gently framing her face from spending the whole night in tight braids. He didn't understand the frumpy sweaters and cuffed jeans; if Marta put an actual effort into her wardrobe then maybe she'd finally get laid and become less of an uptight bitch.

"That's not her name, and it's not her job." Marta’s eyes were hard, her body shifting in discomfort.

Ransom gave her a careless shrug and walked away. "Not my problem."

He barely got back to the foyer before he was bombarded by the two people who held a special place of contempt in his heart. 

"Finally decided to grace us with your presence, you little shit?" greeted his father. 

Ransom's attention was immediately drawn to the fresh bloom of purple around his right eye. He gestured to it, smirking. "Walk into a doorknob, father?" he asked, then popped a cookie into his mouth.

His father faltered, hands fluttering as if he could make it disappear if he avoided touching it, but reared back to his initial state of animosity. "Just tell me, son, if what Jacob said is true." 

Ransom slowly arched his brow. "Is what true?" He brushed past the older Drysdale towards the sitting room, bored already. His mother stopped him from getting far with a strong hand to his shoulder.

"Is your grandfather writing you out of the will?" she asked bluntly. Ransom respected that but not much else, because that's all his mother was capable of being. .

He suspected that the fascist little twerp was eavesdropping last night. No one kept tight lips in this family, no wonder he was already spreading it to everyone else. Ransom looked between his parents lazily, heaving a heavy breath before he threw up his hands in a shrug.

"Yep," he answered, pointedly popping the "p" to annoy them. 

The two shared a brief, heavy look.

"Well," his father started, "it seems that Harlan has finally done what the rest of us couldn't."

Ransom smiled tightly. "Seems so."

"This could be the best thing to happen to you," his mother added. It was pathetic that she thought it was some kind of heartfelt motherly assurance.

Ransom pursed his lips and nodded slowly. He was going to love the look on her face when she finds out that no one else in the family was getting a red dime from Harlan. For now, he was going to rest with his next words being a different kind of cruel. 

"And I guess granddad letting you know where dad's been getting his dick wet has been the best thing that's happened to you."

Ransom left his parents and their balking faces behind, chewing on another cracker as he went to the sitting room and sprawled into one of the armchairs. His stomach churned with great, hot satisfaction at still being able to knock them down from their high horses. Meg stared at him with disgust from her place behind the couch, while Jacob and Donna must be in the middle of the shouting match with Walt.

Joni gave him that fake sympathy that he really didn’t care for. "You know, Ransom, this is going to be good for you," Joni told him, "and nothing good ever comes easy. You won't believe how it feels to fulfill something with your own work and dedication."

Ransom rolled his eyes, wishing someone would just spare him. "Eat shit, Joni."

Joni gaped at him, stammering, "Ex-excuse me?"

"Eat shit?" Meg scoffed. "Real classy, douchebag. She's just trying to help, even though you don't deserve it."

"Eat shit," Ransom repeated. "The both of you."

"Screw you, asshole!" Meg exclaimed.

"How about you focus on 'how good' it's going to be when you get yourself a job, Meg?" Ransom returned. "How else are you going to pay for college now that mommy dearest is broke and granddad isn't cutting the checks anymore?"

Joni paled while Meg glared at him with indignation, her black nails digging into the couch. She probably wished it was his throat. Ransom would love to see her try.

"Granddad would  _ never _ ," she snarled. "He loves us."

"Oh, well if it's  _ love. _ " Ransom sneered at her and stood up. Guess that news hadn't been officially passed around yet. "How about you ask him about it when he's free? See if that love theory holds up." 

With the pleasantries out of the way and his parents having a love spat in their guest room, Ransom sought out a place to lay low. What better way to do so than to go for the nurse? He couldn't let her get out of this without a little something. She could consider it his repayment for going after him last night. 

Ransom slipped down the hall, watching Fran angrily clean up the kitchen sink. He ignored the temptation to push her buttons some more and instead went down to the library. Marta was curled up on the chaise on the right side of the room when he came in, a copy of  _ The Harlequinn's Gambit _ opened in her lap and a small mug of tea resting on the floor. 

Ransom knew she was expecting someone else when she first looked up at him, whether it was Fran or Meg or even granddad himself. He savored the few seconds it took for Marta's demeanor to change; her shoulders squared up as she used her finger to bookmark her page, her gaze becoming guarded. But there was something else there that Ransom didn't recognize, maybe because he'd never seen a member of his family express it. 

"Don't get your granny panties in a bunch." Ransom went for the bar that looked like a replica of Harlan's house. He grabbed one of the glasses from the upstairs shelf, dropping some ice cubes into it before grabbing the good bourbon. 

"It's not even the afternoon," Marta pointed out unhelpfully, not moving from her place on the chaise. 

Ransom tipped his glass to her. "Observant."

The thing about being a Thrombey was that you learned to cope early with the games. A good drink was the perfect vice, and Ransom handled it with far better grace than Walt. It looked like that was as far as the discussion was going since Marta opened her book back up. That didn’t bother him. He'd play the slow game with her. 

Ransom took his drink and walked around the library, aware of Marta's eyes following him. He'd been the one to organize the books. After the summer of being Harlan's research assistant, it had become a habit to show up and cool off from one of their arguments by coming in here and shifting things around until they were in a proper place. There were some good times in his relationship with Harlan; Ransom did love his grandfather. Ransom knew that was why he was the only one entrusted with the full truth of Harlan's plans for the will. Everyone else was getting a piece of the game still, the "rectifying of his sins" and all that bullshit. 

"He told me about last night."

Ransom hummed, his eyes scanning over the shelves. "Fascinating news, Cabrera. Now you're in the fold."

He heard a huff, followed by a soft thud at the closing of the book. "I swear I didn't know what he was planning, Ransom."

"You would've thrown up on me last night if you did. I know."

"I didn't ask him for any of it."

He didn't respond right away, letting the pause give him the ability to confirm or deny her claim. So she might not have asked for it outright. There were ways around that. 

Ransom slowly turned around to face her, an impassive mask set into place while he thought. "Might be redundant for me to ask this, but I'm going to for the sake of transparency. Do you  _ want _ the money?"

Marta had the nerve to look affronted, still managing to pull off her trademark earnestness that should’ve been nausea-inducing. "No. Not at all."

"Do you have some resounding interest in this property?"

"No." 

"Have you, at any point, expressed a desire to run a publishing company?"

" _ No _ . I want nothing that ties me to this family."

"Can't fault you for that kind of option," Ransom said, shrugging.

Ransom hated his family, but he respected their legacy. His grandfather's legacy. Everyone else in this family appeared to be more interested in tarnishing it. His mother did something to expand on it while everyone else had run into the ground. If only it was Walt who fucking died instead of Neil, then they would have stood a chance. 

For all intents and purposes, Ransom felt it fell on him to protect it. Which was why he found it extremely frustrating that Harlan was so ready to throw it aside.

"So, what's so special about you, Marta, that my grandfather would take his legacy and pass it on to you?" Ransom asked. "I won't be ignorant like the rest of my poor excuse of a family and accuse you of fucking him since, even after this bomb, he has enough sense not to go after someone more than half his age, unlike my father, and you're too full of Disney Princess Syndrome to ever consider something so racy."

Marta looked conflicted, likely unable to decide if he was insulting or complimenting her. "Have you ever considered that it is less about me and more about your family?"

"Yeah," Ransom said thoughtfully, sipping from his glass. Marta's gaze followed him as he took a seat in Harlan's eye-catching chair of knives. "That's got a fuck ton to do with it, yeah. Walt's a spineless piece fo shit who's helped give birth to a fascist and steals money from Blood Like Wine to pay off mobsters, while granddad's daughter has her head so far up his ass that she didn't notice her husband was running off to have sex with someone else." Ransom then held up his hand, raising a finger for his next points. "Joni's a new-age ditz who's cheated her customers and fucked the chance of Meg getting to pretend she's something more than a social justice warrior with her libreral education. And then there's me. The black sheep who's never worked a day in his life and loves to do what I want when I want.

"But there's also you, Marta. Because Harlan wouldn't be shirking the accountability of these consequences and feigning some good-hearted desire to help us be  _ better people _ unless something inspired him to. So I ask again, Ms. Cabrera…" Ransom crossed his legs and gestured to her with open curiosity. "What is it about you that is so special?"

Marta looked like a deer caught in the headlights. It was hilarious, really, the way her eyes were bugged out under the weight of his attention. Ransom may be self-involved, but he wasn't an idiot. He wasn't ignorant, either. 

It wasn't just Marta he would protect his fortune from. 

"Well?" he prompted when nothing came. 

"I don't know!" Marta shook her head and started pacing, like she couldn't help herself. He couldn’t recall if he'd ever seen her so wound up, even after his past prodding. "I don't know why he's done it, or why he won't listen to me when I tell him to undo it. I am just trying to be a friend to him so that he has someone around who isn't using him for something they want!"

It should be pathetic that Marta took pride in being friends with someone as old as his grandfather. Harlan didn't need her pity and yet he thrived in her company, was always in high spirits around the nurse and not just because of the morphine. 

Harlan had more respect for a poor immigrant nurse with a heart of figurative gold. An outsider. Harlan cared more about Marta than he did about Ransom. 

He stood and set his glass on the long table, flipping the inner switch to shut off completely.

"Ransom--"

"You should work on your neck muscles, Cabrera," he said as he walked past her. "Heavy is the head that wears the crown."

Ransom left Marta standing in the middle of the library and spared no glance at anyone else on the way out. Not even Harlan, who was in the doorway of his office as he went past.

That was the last time Ransom visited his grandfather's home for a while.

If he was losing his money to Marta, the embodiment of Glinda the Good Witch, then Ransom was going to take on Harlan's challenge and show everyone in the Thrombey clan that he could turn out to be the better of them all. 

Because, fuck it. If Marta was going to be the sole inheritor of the family fortune, then he might as well help those pigs fly a lot faster.

Ransom needed to rely on himself from now on, so he will. 

The first smart thing he did was get in touch with the bank to see how much he had left of his savings. It was a pretty penny as far as savings went, since he didn't exactly splurge or make shady deals, and he was able to calculate that it could last him a good few years.

His next step was to brainstorm a way to keep the money train rolling without losing steam. Something that wasn't menial, of course. He wasn't going to leave the city, either. Fuck New York and Los Angeles. He was staying put.

Ransom wouldn’t admit it to anyone, ever, that it hurt that the publishing company was going to Marta on top of everything else. He was the one who helped Harlan without complaint, who fielded Walt's attempts to tank the work under the breath of adaptation. Ransom knew what it would take to care for Blood Like Wine. He could build it up to greater heights. What could Cabrera do with it?

Just like that, it hit him. If Ransom couldn't lay a finger on Harlan's work or business, then he'll make his own work. He didn't need a company, he needed a book.

It wasn't his arrogance that had Ransom believing that he could pull it off; he'd had great care in Harlan's world of books, helped him research, and he'd written his own stories before. Harlan used to praise him on it when he was younger. Ransom believed he could really pull it off. He needed to.

He already had an idea in mind. It would be a wonderful way of adding a new level to his Fuck You’s to the family.

It took Ransom a week to fill up several notebooks with his character breakdowns, plot outlines, and research. He was quite proud of himself for it, almost tempted to walk into Harlan's office and throw the notebooks in his face. (He didn't.)

Another week was spent stocking up the house with enough food for him to live off of because he wasn't going anywhere until the book was written. He didn't care how long it took. Ransom was going to follow through on this plan and not give himself any chance to back out of it. He prepared a section of his living area to be his makeshift study, kept the floor-to-ceiling blinds down to block out any outside distractions, and blasted a custom playlist from Spotify to serve as his motivational background noise. 

Then, he started writing.

Ransom remembered the rule Harlan had in place whenever the plots in his head were ready to be written down. Only Fran (or previous housekeepers) were allowed to disturb him in his study until it was finished. No distractions were allowed. It was a simple enough rule for Ransom to adopt now. 

That included his phone.

There were the women and occasional men from hook ups that would call or text. His batshit family. He knew Harlan tried to contact him a few times, too. All of it went unanswered, his phone turned off until an hour or two before the sleep that he’d allow himself. He gave the hookups some IOUs since he would need a good, long celebration when his plan worked; the others he ignored. 

The only one he felt partially bad for was Harlan. Since they didn't speak when Ransom came over that day after the birthday party, Ransom was aware that there was a conversation his grandfather wanted to have. He wasn't interested in it, not until this was something to take along and show off. Ransom wasn't ready to deal with that can of worms again, not when Marta had left him a few things to consider. 

It would all be worth it in the end. 

Now, contrary to what his embezzling, leg-busted uncle liked to say, Ransom didn't do drugs. There was a time ten years ago when he did since it was a  _ why the fuck not _ kind of thing, but he'd been clean since. Actually, he took pretty great care of his body.

Ransom would go to the gym several times a week to keep up his fitness, he'd eat relatively healthily when he wasn't attending some special soiree for his mom or imposing on his Granddad. He wasn't one of those trust-fund bitches who flaunted the money to get laid; he had a body to show off, an ability to charm anyone he wanted into his bed, and a damn great car to lure them with if he needed to.

Well, almost anyone.

Needless to say, Ransom was pretty fucking pissed off when he woke up the morning after a long writing binge to find himself rushing to the bathroom and puking his guts out. 

"What the shit…" He groaned into the porcelain, slumping against the floor, the cool tile a relief against his heated skin. Ransom debated the level of how degradingly pathetic it would be if he simply went back to sleep on the floor instead of crawling back to his bed when someone had the audacity to knock.

"No visitors!" he shouted, regretting it when his stomach twisted with a threatening heaviness. 

Whoever the nuisance was wouldn't stop knocking. Ransom fought against a new wave of sickness as he pushed himself up onto his feet. It took him some effort to make the trip to his door, and opening that door didn't feel at all worth it.

"You look like shit, Ransom," Marta frowned, tugging her coat tight around her.

"Do I start by asking why you're here, or how you got my address?" 

"Harlan was worried," she answered. "No one has heard from or seen you in weeks."

Ransom scoffed. "So you volunteered?"

Who was she kidding? No one else was going to volunteer. If Linda or Richard really cared about him, Ransom would have heard from them sooner. He didn't need Marta Cabrera's pity.

"Some people are nice enough to do it despite you being an asshole," Marta defended. "I see you're alive, so I will just go. That's all Harlan needs to know, even though he's hurt you won't answer his calls or come see him."

"Let me try to cry some tears for him," Ransom snarked back. He was gearing up to say more when the heavy wave in his stomach surfaced again. He pushed away from the door and skidded along the floor to get away, aiming for the kitchen sink because he didn't have a chance of making it back to the bathroom. 

Frantic footsteps came up behind him before a small hand was rubbing circles into his back. Ransom meant to jerk away from it but his stomach had him preoccupied. 

He didn't want to delude himself into believing that the comfort underlying her gesture was real or that it made him want to soak in it. 

"Are you all right?" Marta asked. The concern on her face now was similar to how she'd look at his grandfather. It should have been off-putting. Ransom wouldn’t look into why it wasn't. 

Ransom shoved the faucet on to clear out the sink and rinse out his mouth. "Is someone normally all right when they're puking their guts out, Cabrera?" he bit weakly. He didn't have it in him to do the whole routine right now, he just wanted Marta to get out of his house.

Marta at least had the decency to know her question was a stupid one. She grimaced, and then did another stupid thing of touching his forehead.

"I haven't consented to this, I should report you," he said.

Marta ignored him and started pushing him around to his bedroom. "You have a fever."

"Oh no, I just took a really hot shower before you got here. I can walk myself, by the way, I'm a fucking grown up."

"How long have you been sick, Ransom?"

"Twenty minutes."

Ransom didn't catch what she said under her breath, too busy dealing with being pushed into his bed like some toddler. He felt like he was reduced to one when he had to shove her hands away as she tried to cover him with the bedsheets.

"Jesus Christ, Marta, I can do this myself." 

"For once, can you just shut up and let me do this?" Marta demanded, losing her patience. Ransom was too surprised to say anything else. With the lack of response, she grabbed his trash can from the bathroom and set it down next to the bed. "Use this when the feeling comes again. The best thing you can do is go back to sleep, Ransom."

"I can't." Ransom shook his head, which was a mistake that left him dropping it against the pillow to stave off the dizziness. "Got work to do."

Marta paused, something flitting across her face he was too tired and hot to think about. "It has to wait until you're better," she said, no trace of contempt in her voice. "The only way for your body to fight against this is to rest and let it do its job."

It was Ransom's thing to fight back. It's how he got his shits and giggles in life. But it was very difficult to do it while feeling like some shoe heel. "Get out," he murmured, eyes losing their battle and closing. 

Ransom wasn't sure how long he had slept after that. He wasn't the kind of guy who dreamed, and it felt more like a moment of falling asleep and waking up within a blink. The only reason he knew time had passed was because he was surrounded by the smell of something cooking. It was an earthy smell that he didn't recognize, but he didn't mind it. 

Marta came in as he was sitting up and set a bowl down in his lap. He furrowed his brows at it, not touching it. "The fuck is this?" he asked, instead of what he  _ should _ be asking like  _ why are you still in my house _ . 

"Cuban sopa de pollo." She took his hand and shoved a spoon into it. "Eat."

Ransom wasn't looking forward to putting anything in his stomach to have it come back up later. Despite that looming threat, he did feel hungry. "Is my grandfather paying you to look after me now?"

"No," Marta answered, choosing to keep her distance by standing against the wall. "He doesn't know I'm here. It's my day-off."

"You're here of your own choice?" Ransom was caught off guard by her once again, and yet it was  _ exactly _ the kind of thing she's got the temperament to do. "That sounded like a safe idea for you?"

"I am not afraid of you, Ransom." When she didn't turn out to be lying, Ransom couldn't decide if it was impressive or foolish. 

Ransom scrutinized her, unable to understand her play. It brought Harlan's Go comments back to the forefront: If this wasn't an act, then was it some kind of olive branch? Did she have some kind of inability to turn down helping people, no matter how terrible a human being they're proposed to be?

"Cuban, huh?" he said after a moment, blowing on a spoonful of the soup before he slid it into his mouth. He almost wanted to cry with how incredible it tasted; the perfect kick of spice beneath the chicken's prominence. "What the shit, Cabrera?"

Marta made this just for him. She took time out of her day to check on him and make him soup. But he still couldn't understand  _ why _ .

There was a hint of a smile before Marta schooled it away. "Yes. My family is Cuban."

"We were all really far off then." The smirk Ransom gave her wasn't his usual one; he did find himself feeling a little shitty for being flippant with it before. There was a sinking feeling that Marta was starting to get to him like she had with Harlan.

He would love for the connections and insights to fuck right off.

"No one knows what they don't care about," she said, shrugging. "It was better to let you all have your ignorant assumptions."

"Again, you're not wrong." Ransom liked garnering one of Marta's secrets. There was finally something beneath the exterior that the family let themselves see. He selfishly also wondered if he was the only one who Marta's made this for, considering Fran was the one who had that job description.

Marta nodded at the soup. "It's not too spicy, is it?" 

"Cabrera, it's fucking delicious. Let me eat this in peace." 

"A compliment," she teased. "I have never heard one come out of your mouth without any poison attached to it." 

"All part of my charm."

Marta scrunched her face. "You are not charming."

"I could change your mind about that if I wanted to," Ransom replied. 

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right." Marta left, coming back with bags he knew weren't with her when she first got there and a large mug of tea that she put on his bedside table. "Drink this when you're done. It will help with the fever and your stomach."

"Aw, you make me food and now you're just leaving me?" Ransom pouted and batted his lashes at her, melting away in seconds to a smirk. He waved her off and scooped some more of the soup into his mouth. "I'll survive without you, Cabrera."

"Please do," Marta responded seriously. "And answer your phone next time Harlan calls you."

Ransom laughed, "I'm not promising that."

Marta stared him down, and it was a refreshing thing to see her looking tough against him as opposed to the usual behavior of taking the Thrombeys' blows with a stiff smile. He was growing to like the challenges she presented him.

"Ransom," she said, gaze unwavering, "promise me."

He sighed. "Fine. I promise."

"Thank you."

And then Marta put on her coat, grabbed her things, and left.

Against every assumption that Ransom had left about her, Marta showed up for the next few days, until his flu officially passed. She made him dishes every time, slowly opening up about her mother's beef picadillo (Some kind of cornmeal stew with crab that Ransom did not have the Spanish wherewithal to pronounce correctly so he didn't even try.) and a tiny little cheesecake made of guava that she'd presented as some kind of reward for getting healthy.

"These recipes are the only things that my mother was able to hold onto when she left," Marta confessed, having migrated to the corner of his bed. 

The way she'd say things had Ransom's brain slowly ticking away to a conclusion that she had to have been keeping to herself. It could have been one of the reasons she kept so quiet around his family. 

"How much do you have left to save for an immigration lawyer?" Ransom inquired. He noted the hitch in her breath, the way she swallowed harder than necessary. She couldn't look at him. For the quickest of seconds, he could see her consider lying.

"It's still a lot more to go," she eventually answered. "I'm helping Alice with school and some of the bills. I can't afford to hold back much." 

It struck Ransom that if Harlan's lawyer was to find out about Marta's mom, if anyone did, then it would be a way to prevent Marta from getting any of Harlan's inheritance.

It then struck him right after that he had no inclination to be the one to make that happen.

"The American Dream doesn't come cheap, Nightingale," he responded.

Marta came before and after her shifts with Harlan, as if she couldn't trust that Ransom could look after himself. It would be insulting if Ransom didn't enjoy having an attractive woman around. It was more than Marta being an attractive woman; there were layers being peeled away from the both of them. He could feel it. Something had changed, and he couldn't place the significant moment of when or why. 

"Why haven't you told your family about Harlan's inheritance?"

Ransom continued to type away on his book. He'd since been given the permission to walk around since he wasn't running a fever anymore.

Marta never asked about what he was writing. Like she got what it meant when he zoned out on his laptop. She might, if Harlans' done anything similar around her.

"For a very simple reason, Marta," Ransom answered, fingers slowing to a stop. His eyes moved away from the page to where she sat on his couch, a book opened in her lap. "I don't owe my family shit."

Marta's fingers brushed along the edges of her page, thinking. "I thought you were all about your family legacy?"

"A legacy is only as strong as the people within it," Ransom replied, "which means protecting it from them as well."

"Why would you do that? What do you get out of it?"

Ransom grinned. "I get the pleasure of watching my family get screwed over like they deserve. Keep the money when it comes, Marta. Keep the house, take the publishing company. My family is owed nothing."

Marta stared at him like she couldn't figure him out. Being in the same position was helpful to Ransom, at least. Neither of them was winning over the other.

"Am I expected to give you your cut as a thank you?" she asked, dubious.

Ransom went back to his book, a chuckle escaping him. "I've got my cut taken care of."

He was willing to hear the version of her that was usually reserved for only Harlan and Meg. Ransom could guess that it was  _ more _ than what Meg got to see. And Ransom didn't brush her off as often as he did with everyone else. Marta was able to file down the points of his words with a quiet strength that he was finding more admirable than annoying.

When the day came that Ransom finished the final word and punctuation of his book, he did something that, months earlier, he never would have considered. He let Marta Cabrara read it.

"Well?" Ransom asked after a shower, toweling his damp hair and tossing it into his hamper. 

Marta set his laptop down on the coffee table and looked up at him, her eyes looking him over slowly. "He always says that you're a lot like the young man he used to be," she said thoughtfully, "now I can really see it."

They were going to need to work on Marta's compliments, and Ransom needed to work on not feeling validated by comparisons to Harlan. He wasn't needy like that. Not anymore.

Ransom sat down on the edge of a chair and leaned forward. "I'm sorry, is that supposed to mean something to me?"

Marta brought her hands together and matched his position, a smile slowly growing on her face that didn't match the sparkle in her eyes. "I mean, that you're both intelligent and capable writers."

Hope stirred in a way that Ransom couldn't beat it back. "So, it's good."

"It's  _ very _ good," she nodded.

It was embarrassing how hard it hit Ransom. To be told he was good at something and not just because of his name or looks or entitlement. He didn't know he needed it until he started down this path, and he didn't care that it was Marta fucking Cabrera giving him the praise. He was going to take it and lock it up in a safe so that the feeling wouldn’t be stolen from him.

Ransom slid back further into the chair, closed his eyes and  _ smiled _ , because he now understood what Harlan was trying to say he wanted from him. He felt his heart ache because, shit, he could feel it in his bones that he was going to forgive Marta for changing things, love his grandfather in a better light because this was going to save the legacy. 

There wasn’t any way to sweep under the carpet the fact that Ransom and Marta were friends now. He respected her enough to not swerve around it. It was an immovable fact. 

He was far too much like Harlan than either of them expected, and Ransom no longer felt disgusted by the possibility.

"What do you do next?" Marta asked when Ransom walked her out to her car later that evening. It was her day off again, and she had chosen to spend it with him reading his manuscript instead of frollicking the farmer's market with her sister or whatever it was that Marta did for fun.

Ransom brushed the corner of his mouth with his thumb and shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. "Polish it. Then submit it to some literary agents and publishing houses. See where it goes from there."

"Are you…" Marta hesitated, her fingers drumming against the car door. "Are you thinking of seeing what Harlan would think of it?"

If she had asked him when the book was first started, Ransom would have told her to go shove it up her ass and mind her fucking business. He also would have said Harlan could eat shit. But he was calmer now. He had accomplished what he set out to prove. Ransom might have been thinking clearly for the first time in his life.

"I owe him a call." Ransom left it at. He shut the door for Marta when she got in the car, stepping back. 

She started her car, taking a couple of tries before the engine committed to living. She then rolled down the window. "It's kind of funny," she told him, "but Harlan asked me a while back about morphine and naloxone. He was very excited at the prospect of a murder involving switched medications."

Ransom's use of the murder method had been a catharsis. Harlan's curiosity was always morbid. Knowing they both were capable of matching a thought process or idea was like going back to the researcher days. 

"Great minds, Marta." 

He waited until Marta was gone to go inside, allowing himself to consider calling Harlan for the first time since the first words had been written. Instead of taking his time with it, Ransom answered the phone when Harlan called him the following day.

It was an assumption that the call was made at Marta’s nudging, not that Ransom was going to hold it against her. She couldn't help herself when it involved making his grandfather happy. It's a little less cavity-inducing now that Ransom was willing to accept it as a legitimate drive rather than the artificial shit a gold digger or someone in his family would do.

He took a steadying breath before he swiped the call but once he did, Ransom had his swagger back on.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, granddad?" he greeted, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"I was starting to think that you lost the ability to answer the phone."

"I'm a busy man with things to do."

"So I've heard," Harlan replied. "Ransom--"

"I didn't think Marta had it in her to be a spy, even for you," Ransom said with a smirk that would be left unseen. "Not the right stomach for espionage, you know?" 

He couldn't help himself. Old habits tended to die hard, and he never promised anyone that he'd be changing his ways just because he and Cabrera had made some unspoken truce. 

On the other end, he could hear Harlan taking great pains to keep from taking the bait. "Marta was merely kind enough to inform me of your improved health, Ransom."

"It's sweet that you were so concerned," Ransom replied, grabbing a knife from his dish rack and twirling it against the counter by its tip.

"Is this how we're going to spend the rest of our days?" Harlan asked tiredly. "Quips through the phone when you're so inclined to answer?"

Ransom was close to saying  _ yes  _ for the sole desire of pushing one more old button. But he didn't. His promise to talk to his grandfather wasn't about picking up where they left off on the hostile love-hate bitching. This wasn't some  _ notice me, senpai _ bullshit. This was a gauntlet that Harlan had thrown at his feet, and Ransom made the choice to pick it up instead of throwing the fit that everyone falsely predicted he would. 

"Telling me about Marta and the will in the way you did was dramatically cruel, even for you, Granddad," Ransom answered, setting down the knife. 

"I believed ripping off the band aid was the best way."

"Yeah, I know what you believed." Ransom strolled over to the windows and took in the view. It was similar to the one at Harlan's; nothing but the beautiful cast of light through the trees and the assurance of privacy from unwanted visitors. "It was a shit way to do it."

"So I've been told," Harlan replied in a grumble. Ransom didn’t need a degree to guess that he was referring to Marta.

"You can talk about it being for the best and to help heal, or whatever other crap you want to throw in there. It's still a terrible idea. But you wanted me to forage for myself, so here I am doing just that. Enjoy being right, again." 

"It's not being right that I care about, Ransom. I care about you being independent. Of you having something to show for yourself. I am pleased that you've done it." 

There was that swell of pride again. This time, he didn't fight it. He fucking earned it, and the praise wasn't coming from Harlan being patronizing like it would coming from his parents.

"I wrote a book," he told the man, allowing himself to admire the way the sun peeked out from above the trees. He bought the place without caring about the scenery. Now, Ransom might make a point of enjoying it.

Harlan's chuckle was welcoming, like the hearth of the fireplace in the man's sitting room. Ransom wanted to sit in front of it and keep stoking the flames. "Being a research assistant finally paid off, hm?"

Ransom fought back a smile. "Guess it did."

"Are you going to tell me about it, or am I forced to wait in my old age to see it released?"

"Wanata's still kicking," Ransom said, rolling his eyes. "You've got time."

"Don't give me a challenge," Harlan warned, but he could hear the smile in his grandfather's voice. 

"Maybe you can read it and give me some constructive criticism," Ransom suggested tentatively. Fuck, when's he ever been tentative before?

"If you trust me to not ruffle your feathers over it. I'd be honored, Ransom."

It was going to be simple enough to hand it over. He'd never heard his grandfather use "honored" before in response to someone's request, unless it was when they were kids asking him to dance or play at parties. 

The phone call cemented a plan for Ransom to come up to the house. 

There was one other thing he requested of his grandfather, something he was surprised he even  _ had _ to ask about, but it surprised Harlan that he was even asking about it. "She's gotten to you, too," was all that he'd said about it, a hint of triumph underneath the current of pleased approval. 

Yeah, Ransom was becoming a real boy, heart three sizes bigger, whatever. She's Mother Theresa and he's another wayward soul that she's saving. Whatever his grandfather wanted to think of it. 

Ransom emailed a copy of the manuscript to Harlan when the call was over, then made himself a list of agents and publishers to send copies to later. The rush of anxiety and adrenaline was strange compared to the days of not having to feel anything at all or making an effort, but he found that he liked the feeling. He fucking liked working. 

Things could have been different if there'd been a real effort to teach him that by someone other than solely his grandfather. 

He went to bed that night in high spirits. He tried to do what he could the next day to keep his mind off of Harlan and the manuscript.

Ransom timed it for when he was rolling onto the property. With the window rolled down, he tossed the treats at the approaching dogs and made a quick park around the bend of the driveway. A glance up at the balcony had him making eye contact with Marta, who didn't expect the visit but didn't look like she was dreading it the way she used to. 

Ransom let himself into the house, as he always did, and took a look around while he removed his sunglasses. He tucked them into his coat pocket while noting the closed door of Harlan's office before heading in the opposite direction.

Marta was waiting for him, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders and a still warm mug of tea clasped between her hands. Ransom leaned back against the stone railing and tilted his head back to let the cool November air caress his face. 

"I was starting to think you didn't remember how to get here," Marta teased over the rim of the mug. 

"So now the nurse is an aspiring comedienne," he commented, no real bite behind it.

Marta shrugged her shoulders, an upward curve appearing on her lips. "Harlan didn't say that you were coming."

"Harlan didn't know."

She nodded, satisfied, and went back to drinking her tea while looking over the property.

Ransom watched her out of the corner of her eye, and the way the soft sunlight made her skin glow. It wasn’t the first time he'd thought of Marta as attractive; it was the first thing he noticed about her when she was hired. At the time, it'd been about potentially using her and tossing her aside like the others that have landed in his bed. 

Now there was something else with the observation. He didn't have the right words to describe it yet, but Ransom was stubborn like Harlan, so he would figure it out when he wanted to.

"He is going to like it," she told him after sharing a comfortable silence.

"I try not to be too optimistic when it involves The Great and Powerful Wizard."

"You should try it sometime," Marta replied, "then you can be pleasantly surprised when I'm right."

Ransom rolled his head to look down at Marta, to look at how confident she'd gotten. "I'll leave the ’Friendship is Magic’ philosophy to you, Cabrera," he drawled.

Several emotions flickered on her face, and Ransom took great pains to catch each one of them. Bewilderment, amusement, delight. She tried to tamper them all down, but he saw it and he wasn't going to just forget. He put those there, he made her feel them. What else could Ransom make her feel?

"Did you just--"

"I am bored," Ransom declared. He pushed away from the balcony and started for the sheltered patio. "It's time you finally play me at Go, Cabrera."

"What?"

"My grandfather's made a claim that you're better than me at beating him at Go. Time to put his money where his mouth is, let's play."

He didn't need to look back to know she was following him; Marta's shoes thumped softly behind him as she came after him.

"This is ridiculous," she tried as he led her up the creaking stairs. Harlan kept his Go board in the study, at the very top floor up the narrow staircase by his bedroom. It's the same room Ransom did the research in, the same room he and Harlan would have their own matches. 

No one would be able to bother them unless they absolutely needed to, and they'd get some warning beforehand. It was only Fran and his grandfather that were left in the house, anyway. 

"A gauntlet has been thrown," Ransom said. He confidently draped himself over where his grandfather usually sat, looking up at Marta expectantly while he set up the board and held out the bag of white pieces to her. "If you're too chicken shit to accept, Marta, I am happy to tell everyone that it means you know I'm better than you."

His taunt did the trick. He took victory just by seeing the fire ignite in her eyes. "You're going down, bendejo," Marta informed him, shutting the door and snatching the bag from him.

Ransom smiled plainly. "To the victor goes the spoils."

Marta scoffed at him as she pulled the ties of her bag and emptied out a handful into her palm. "What spoils?"

"What else? Bragging rights."

"You're the only one who cares about bragging."

"Hence the need to have the rights to do it."

It didn't take Ransom long to realize he was losing. Before this miraculous bonding between them, he would have probably gotten infuriated by the development and have stormed off. Now, he was merely perplexed. 

He stared down at the board when it was over, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he observed the way the white pieces surrounded his own, taking on a more artistic form than some precise strategy. 

"Huh," he said, muffled into his hand.

"Does this mean I get the bragging rights?" she asked, even her smirk looking softer than the one he liked to dish out.

He nodded slowly. "It does."

Marta gathered up her pieces. "Harlan's a sore loser. I expected you to be the same."

"A month ago I would have been."

Marta nodded but didn't comment on it. Ransom joined in collecting his own dark pieces.

"When we played on his birthday, Harlan faked an earthquake so that the game couldn't officially be counted," she told him.

Ransom couldn't help the sound that came out of him, or the way it startled her into one of her own. "Where do you think I learned the behavior from?" he replied. 

"Abuelo likes to be stubborn in his fun," Marta shrugged, jiggling her bag. "Another game?"

He lost count of how many rounds they’d played. Ransom couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed himself so much. He honestly couldn't find himself giving a shit every time he lost. Although he did win some, so it wasn’t like he was a complete loser. 

Ransom had picked up on why she won so much: Marta Cabrera played the same way she went through her life; without a determination to win at all costs, a lack of ruthlessness, and a desire to make something beautiful out of even the most insignificant of pieces. It's hard to win against a strategy like that. 

"Okay, fuck, I give up!" Ransom eventually announced, dropping his bag on top of the board. "You get the bragging rights. I finally get how you won my grandfather over." 

Marta was kind enough to not be smug while she picked up her pieces for the final time. "You need to learn to have some fun with it."

"I get all the fun I need," Ransom replied.

"I don't see how Ransom Drysdale can get any fun out of losing something," she countered. 

Ransom leaned closer to her, not missing how Marta stilled at the proximity. "Maybe I know I'm winning something else in its place."

Frankly, Ransom expected Marta to move away and chide him for the game he was moving on to. It was what he was betting on. A light teasing gesture that neither of them would have any intention of following through on. They'd spent much of their relationship being in contempt of the other. It was only recently that either of them were given reason to put that aside and have a friendly game or conversation. 

Therefore, it left Ransom unmoored when she didn't move away. There was a slowly developing flush to her cheeks and the slightest of growth to her pupils. He didn't miss the way her eyes made a quick trip down to his lips. It, in turn, made him look down at hers. Marta's lips were rosy and so delicately curved that he suddenly wondered what it would be like to devour them.

The world and the important things zeroed down to that one thought. 

_ What would she do if I kissed her? _

Any possible direction that could have gone was severed by a knock on the door.

"Marta? Are you in here?"

They jerked back in an instant before the door was opened and Fran poked her head in. Fran's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Ransom's presence.

"Is everything okay here?" she asked Marta, not looking away from Ransom. 

Ransom donned the routine of a careless smile even though he was cleaning up the Go board. "Good to see you, Fran," he told her, throwing her off. 

Marta gave him a look before she smiled assuredly at the housekeeper. "We were playing a few rounds since Harlan is busy."

It was the truth, but one that Fran did not appear to like. "He's done for the day," Fran replied, "and he's looking for you." 

Marta nodded. "Thank you, Fran, I'll be right down." Fran hovered for another long minute, clearly not wanting to leave them alone now, but had no excuse to use so she gave up and left with the door closing behind her.

Ransom let out a drawn out sigh and stood. "That's my cue. I should get going."

Marta blinked up at him in surprise. "Don't you want to see him?"

"I knew he would be reading my book today," he said, fixing his coat. "I came to see you and finally get this game."

"You… you came to see me?" Marta's confusion bordered on being adorable, which was another first. 

"Someone needed to cure my boredom. You got the lucky draw of the hat. You're welcome."

Ransom walked out before he could see if Marta believed the excuse completely or not. He could hear her coming along down the steps but didn't concern himself with turning around. It wasn't until they reached the ground floor that Marta grabbed his arm to stop him from leaving. 

He looked down at her hand slowly, feeling the heat bloom through the material of his clothes from the source. When he followed it up to her face, there was a nervousness there that she usually saved for the family gatherings. "Did you need something, Cabrera?" he asked in an attempt of levity.

It was another moment before Marta retracted her hand but her expression didn't change. She was searching for something, he didn't know what, but she wasn't stopping until she found it.

"Harlan insisted on getting my family a lawyer," Marta told him. "To help with my mom's case."

Ah. "Did he now?" Ransom responded, face carefully blank. "Congrats." 

Maria's eyes didn't stop watching for him. "I tried to turn him down."

A life of privilege was what kept Ransom from physically reacting. Had to be good for something. "Sounds like a big mistake."

"Is it?" Marta squinted it at him.

"Isn't it?" he returned. "You want your mom safe, right? Why wouldn't you take the offer? Our family has great lawyers who'd get her status changed and expedited."

"I don't--"

"Don't what, Marta? Want help? Harlan doesn't do things out of sympathy or pity, as fucked up as a lot of it is. He's made it clear you're family to him. That's what the will being changed was about. Family is the biggest thing to him, regardless of it being backwards most of the time. He wants to help, so let him help. It's really asinine to turn away an offer to give your mother citizenship just because it's being done by someone with money. It's a friend helping a friend, for Christ's sake." 

And that, well--

Yeah, Ransom should have kept his mouth shut. He's good at running it when he thought he had the upper hand. 

The light went on in those dark eyes. Something softened in Marta before she stepped back. "I'm unused to having friends with big bank accounts," Marta replied. "I won't make it a habit of accepting that kind of help from those friends."

Ransom still shrugged it off and put on his sunglasses. "Share that with my grandfather. It won't mean much when he thinks he's doing the right thing."

He's halfway out the door when Marta called his name. He sighed to himself and looked over his shoulder to see that she hadn't moved. 

"Thank you."

They don't mention it after that. Ransom because it had been said and done without him caring to add anything, and Marta because she loved to prove time and time again that her golden heart knew when things were worth being left unsaid.

Ransom's house visits started back into their old frequency, but not to visit his grandfather. Not always. He came to challenge Marta at more Go, or to rant about his parents’ petty squabbling that he  _ did not give a shit about _ and would have loved for them to leave him the fuck out of it. Some days he fell into his old habit of reorganizing Harlan's library while Marta was on the chaise reading another one of Harlan's books. 

He saw Fran go from hovering at a distance with incredulity at his civility towards the two of them to dropping reluctant compliments when Ransom said something that fell under the Nice category. He even let her call him by his middle name, which had nothing to do with the pleased look Marta got hearing him permit it. 

There were times when Ransom would actually sit down with great-nana. He didn’t ask her questions, only made sure she had a snack and talked about the new revelations in his life. It seemed to be enough for the two of them; there was a slow-growing smile here and there that told him so.

Harlan came in every now and again to watch his and Marta's matches when he wasn't in the office reading or handling a call from Blood Like Wine. It's a strange vibe of  _ home _ that had settled over all of them rather than the common hostility, and it made Ransom lie in his bed thinking about it at night. He called Harlan's place the ancestral family home, his legacy, but he hadn't realized (or cared to admit until now) that it was only that in name. 

And Ransom, who had spent his life aggressively denying that he wanted a family that felt real and loving, who refused to acknowledge the dreams of warm, welcoming hands instead of cold, cruel teeth, was drawn to this new embrace. 

Marta Cabrera had won again, and she didn't even know they were playing.

The weeks passed quickly and before Ransom knew it, November was already almost through, which meant that it's time for the holiday that epitomized white privilege in North America.

Family feuding and scrapped wills did not stop the Thrombey clan from painting on the fake smiles and joining Harlan for a Thanksgiving feast. Family gatherings were such entertainment, Ransom couldn't resist it even now. He had healthier motives for coming along, too, but he only had so much "good" within him for his motives.

The last thing any of his family (apart from Harlan) expected was for him to be the first one there.

Meg and Joni stood in the doorway of the sitting room with copious amounts of skepticism and bewilderment as Ransom threw his head back with unfiltered laughter, Fran and Marta standing with him in their own thralls of amusement. 

"What… is going on?" Meg asked helplessly at the women. 

"I feel a drastic change in the vibe of this room," Joni commented, hands waving around like she's trying to grasp whatever lingerings of the vibe there were in the ethos. 

"Fran here was just telling us about one of her favorite Lifetime romantic-comedies," Ransom answered chipperly, enjoying himself for once in a genuine manner.

Meg gaped at him. "You know her name now? Did I miss the apocalypse?"

"Meg," Marta frowned. 

"How's the Barnes & Noble job working out for you, Meg?" Ransom asked, ignoring the warning glare Marta shot his way.

Meg's face contorted into the condemnation he remembered. " _ Asshole _ ," she seethed before storming outside, probably to vape her way to calmness.

The disappointed look Marta gave him before going after her made Ransom feel guilty, but only because it's Marta, and he was quick to brush it off. He could change how he treated her, but he wouldn’t be changing how he treated the rest of his family.

Walt's reaction might have been the funniest one. Leg newly healed and cast-free, he  _ still _ managed to trip over his feet at the sight of Ransom there before him. 

"Decided to grace us with your presence, Ransom?" Walt tried to recover, but it didn't quite manage what the man was after since Donna and Jacob were busy helping him with his footing. Ransom didn't appreciate the scorn, it was the perfect touch by Walt. 

"You know me, Walt," Ransom replied casually, polishing off his drink. "I can't miss out on a good production."

He wasn't a pathetic asshole who moped all alone during the holidays, so even if things weren't on good terms with him and Harlan, Ransom would be off at the country club or a bar. He actually wanted to be there this time, and not just to see Walt get drunk off his ass like usual.

"Money been tight lately, Hugh?" Walt asked smugly, taking a seat in one of the chairs. His family stayed close, as if waiting to get the front row view of some trash television show.

It, in fact, hadn't been, thanks to Ransom's great care since Harlan's birthday. He wasn't the extravagant spender everyone accused him of being, either. 

However, Ransom was the only one besides Marta who Harlan had told about his entire family plan. So how did Walt know about him getting cut off like everyone else?

"You know, it was the damndest thing," Ransom started, cocking his head at his uncle, "having my parents come up to me after the birthday party and asking me about Jacob mentioning that to them. What gave him that idea, Walt?"

"I heard you and granddad," the fascist twerp sneered, looking up from his phone for once. 

"Were you jerking off in the bathroom?" he asked innocently, earning various scoffs and the indignant gasp from Donna.

"How dare you!" she screeched.

"I wasn't masturbating," Jacob replied irritably, "but I heard him. I heard granddad say you weren't getting your inheritance."

Ransom pursed his lips to fight the smirk. Vents and thin walls didn't bode well for keeping secrets when someone wanted to listen. If that was the only thing the kid heard, though, then there was nothing to worry about for now. 

"Yeah, he did," he confirmed without a care. "But you see, it pays to be smart and rich. Some investments here and there, keeping out of any  _ debts _ \--" Walt paled to the point of looking like death, and Donna's hands started shaking more than usual "--long story short, I'm still coasting."

Once he picked one of the many offers that had been pouring in, Ransom would be back to having the flow of income he was used to. It wouldn’t change his careful antics with it but hey, he'd have more wealth than Walt ever would. 

Walt's pallor went from white to purple within seconds. He took what Ransom assumed was supposed to be a menacing step toward him. "Why you--"

"I see I haven't missed anything."

Ransom's mom was the one to show up last, pointedly without his dad, her soon-to-be ex-husband. Harlan made it clear Richard wasn't allowed on the property ever again. She looked as steel-spined as ever, without a hint of the turmoil he knew the affair had on her. It was one of the only times Ransom recalled seeing human emotions from her, except the adoration she always expressed towards Harlan. 

"Ransom," she greeted him from his grandfather's side, surprise on her face like the others.

"Mother," he said in return, flat, with a short nod. He took the interruption as an opportunity to refill great-nana's water, which only served to increase the stares of everyone around him. Only Marta, who had just brought Meg back inside, was looking at him with approval and a look of tenderness in her eyes that came and went quickly. Harlan looked proud.

"Now that everyone is here, I would love for sus to move to the table so that the dinner doesn't get cold," Harlan announced smoothly, a smile still there on his face as he waved his hand down the hall. 

The tension wasn’t broken, it never was. But Ransom made it a point to make everyone continue to see their worlds being turned upside down by offering his arm to great-nana.

"Let me escort you to the table," he told her, a pleasant smile put on for the old woman. She curled her fragile fingers as much as she could around his forearm and rose from her seat carefully, her blank stare directed down their path before they started scuttling their way to the dining room. 

He stopped where Marta was holding back from the family, arching a brow at her. "Are you coming?"

Marta's eyes widened slightly before she shook her head. "Oh, no, I--"

"Shut up and come on," he interrupted. "Cabrera, you weren't invited tonight just to stand around with Fran and the other servers while everyone eats."

He didn't leave her any room to object further, grabbing her with his other hand and ushering her along. There were exchanged glances by the relatives that Ransom wasn't paying attention to; if it was Meg doing it, no one would have batted their expensively extended eyelashes. 

The family seating was always based on the individual families, with Walt's heading one side and theirs on the other. It left Joni and Meg down at the end, having to make themselves known in conversation however they could. Since Ransom's father wasn't there this year, it left a free seat on their side, which he promptly deposited Marta in front of before he took great-nana to the end of the table. Great-nana always sat across from Harlan.

"What the hell is going on?" he heard Meg ask Marta under her breath as she claimed the seat on the nurse's other side. 

Marta looked at her helpless with a shrug, taking the seat because she knew there wasn't a way out of it. With great-nana tucked up to the table, Ransom came back around for his own spot between Marta and his mother.

His mother leaned over to him once his chair was tugged in close. "Is there something I need to know?" she asked him in a low voice.

"Not a fucking thing," Ransom answered, unfolding his cloth napkin with a whip of it in the air before spreading it over his lap. "And I wouldn't tell you even if there was."

"Your father has already caused us enough scandal as it is," she pushed. "Don't give us something else."

"It's not dad's scandal you should be concerned with," Ransom snorted, and he left it at that. Let them cake it on. He's going to be the one laughing his ass off the hardest when granddad died and they found out there was nothing for them to get from the Thrombey name ever again. 

He noticed Walt glaring their way, but it took a second for him to pinpoint why it was different than any other time his uncle looked his way; Walt wasn't glaring at him, but at Marta.

Why?

Harlan cleared his throat, casting a glance at everyone around the table as he raised his glass. "My family. I am thankful to see you all hear after the unfortunate circumstances many of us parted on after my birthday." He was genial about it like only Harlan could be. Ransom was the only one at the table who didn't start shifting at the words, but the words also increased the scowl on Walt's face. 

What the hell was going on? 

"Tough decisions were finally made for the betterment of this family," Harlan went on, and Ransom didn't miss the way his granddad's eyes grew softer passing over Marta and him. "Here we are, still together even after, proving our strength." He let his glass clink against Linda's. "To family."

"To family," the others murmured around the table. Marta stayed quiet. He hoped Meg, at least, would be able to coax her into enjoying the dinner. 

It was the typical Thanksgiving trimmings; two well-seasoned turkeys, an abundance of stuffing, homemade cranberry sauce, whatever someone could desire in thanks to the mass genocide and imprisonment of Native Americans. The usual.

But hey, at least the food's delicious. 

Ransom tuned out the usual ass-kissing between family members and his grandfather, instead taking joy in the slights and jabs that got passed around. He did notice after a while that Marta was able to stop sitting like a rod and relax, so his idea paid off pretty well. When everyone had enjoyed their seconds and thirds and still had plenty of food left that could feel an entire orphanage, everyone was in good spirits, like none of them had experienced Harlan bring down the ax. 

Well, "everyone" being a subjective word.

Something was in Walt's ass the whole duration of dinner. It had something to do with Marta, Ransom was sure of it at this point since the man barely spared a glance at anyone else, so when everyone adjourned back to the sitting room, Ransom was well and ready to position himself close enough to Marta in case something happened. 

"Ransom." He stopped, halfway to the chair, to look at his grandfather. "I would like a moment with you, if you would be so kind as to indulge an old man?"

His suspicions of Walt were nearly enough for Ransom to rebuff Harlan tonight. Except this was the first time since the party that they were going to be alone in a room together. Ransom refrained from glancing Marta's way, nodding at Harlan and following the man around the corner into his office. He closed the door and waited, feeling like he was thrown into a sense of deja vu as Harlan took his seat behind the desk. 

"Is there another revision of the will to discuss?" Ransom asked, just to be a shit. "Announcing the bankruptcy of Blood Like Wine? Is great-nana being wheeled off to a high-end nursing home?"

Harlan stared at his grandson, unimpressed. "If I announced any of those, then I would finally have become the old kook everyone else would accuse me of being."

"Can't help but to check," Ransom replied, crossing his arms. 

His grandfather hummed in response and sat back in his chair, giving way to his keen eye. "I had high hopes for you, when I told you about the inheritance."

"Ah, yes, Marta was very much your cheerleader for that. You and your  _ second chances _ for everyone." 

Harlan's birthday had changed everything. For the family, yes, but Ransom's path in life diverted to the one less traveled by his kind.

"This family has been in my shadow, Ransom," his grandfather said solemnly, "and that is my deepest regret. I have allowed things to slip by that should have been squashed. I put no stop to the spoilings of my grandchildren, out of thinking that's what my love for them required. You've been the one stuck in that shadow the most, the one most like the man I used to be. I want you to have a chance to make your own way."

Ransom waved it off. "I know, Granddad. I got the whole picture, I don't need a rehash." 

"That's not what I mean to do with you here."

"Then can you get to the point?" he asked. They were missing the  _ delightful  _ conversation outside. More importantly, Ransom couldn't keep an eye on Walt if they were stuck in this office.

"Out of everyone I talked to at my birthday party, you are the only one who made an effort to real change." 

Ransom wasn't surprised. His dad didn't fess up to the affair, Walt was still hounding about the company, and Joni was too desperate to hold onto her public image to figure out a fix for screwing over her own daughter's education.

It wasn't much of an education track, but Ransom still called it like he saw it.

"You did what I hoped you would," Harlan added, a fond smile curling at the corners. "It's a fantastic book.  _ The Last Gentleman Sleuth _ is an awkward title but I think you can develop a much catchier one."

All of the snark Ransom liked to wear as his armor dropped in an instant. He couldn't look away from his grandfather, re-hearing the words. 

"I know that my point was to set you on your own path. But in light of how that path has gone, I would like to make an offer."

Ransom blinked and lowered his arms, still shaken with the unexpected praise. "An offer?"

"How would you feel about publishing it under Blood Like Wine?"

It would be a first, something by the family that wasn't Harlan's. The family company would put it on the Must Read lists alone. Ransom  _ would _ , in fact, be golden and with a book that would start right at the top. 

Ransom mulled it over, the tempting prospect, and what's changed in him since he decided to start writing it the book. 

"I started out writing this book to prove something and shove your decision up your ass," Ransom told him outright. It needed to be said. "But then I wrote it for me. I wound up doing exactly what you wanted me to, and I'm doing just fine. Accepting your offer would be me spitting in the face of everything I've decided for myself. So, no. I don't want Blood Like Wine to publish my book."

Harlan didn't speak right away. His measured gaze stayed on Ransom, as if to look for the tiniest hint that it was another move in their game. Then, Harlan's face lit up with approval and he nodded. 

"Good."

Anything else that could be said was left when they heard the muffled shouts outside the door. 

"Shit," Ransom hissed, sharing a startled glance with Harlan before he was throwing open the office door.

In the cacophony of yelling, Fran and Meg were blocking Walt from Marta as the others shouted at him, nothing coming out clearly.

"What the fuck is going on?" Ransom barked out, shutting down the shouts in an instant. Harlan caught up, stopping at his side with heavy disappointment in his eyes.

"Does someone care to explain what the ruckus is about and why Marta looks absolutely terrified?" he demanded.

Walt swayed and stumbled toward Harlan and Ransom, all the while pointing an accusatory finger at Marta. So he'd had enough liquid courage to move on to the outburst portion of the night's activities. "Tell them about her."

"Give it a rest already, Walt," Ransom's mother bit out, exasperated.

"What, specifically, are you looking for me to tell everyone that involves her?" Harlan asked, only a thin level of patience seeping into his tone. 

"Tell them what you did to the will." The malicious gleam in Walt's eyes was pushed with the victory he somehow thought he had. "Tell them about the fact that she gets everything. Donna and I have seen the updated will."

Ransom's jaw tightened, fingers curling inward to form clenched fists. Bingo. The reason for the glares over the dinner table. He knew he should have stayed.

Everyone else but Marta turned wild eyes onto Harlan. Meg even moved away from Marta like the woman had betrayed her. 

"Dad?" Linda took a step closer. "What is he talking about? Is it true?"

Harlan took a look at each of them, calmly. "It is true."

"She gets everything, Linda," Walt added. "The money, the house, Blood Like Wine. Every last cent."

Shouts erupted once again, as if no one could decide who to throw the accusations at next.

"Harlan, this has to be a mistake," Joni tried. "Let's all just calm down, restore the vibes, and talk about this."

"Did you sleep with my grandpa?" Jacob shouted at the nurse, forcing Fran to come to her aid. Everyone was between Ransom and Marta, he wouldn't be able to get to her right away. 

Walt snarled. "But she isn't family!"

"I told you they were coming to take what's ours!" Donna cried shrilly as she glared at Marta.

This was the moment that Ransom had been waiting for. It wasn't supposed to happen now, it was supposed to be after Harlan's funeral; he'd planned on strolling in knowing he didn't have any cares of the pre-known outcome. He was going to sit in the library while the contents were read aloud, and then he was going to laugh his ass off as they tore each other apart.

The moment had come and Ransom couldn’t even bring himself to laugh.

"Knock it off, all of you," Harlan tried, but the plea fell on deaf ears.

Ransom couldn't enjoy the moment of his family falling apart because Walt was using it in an attempt to crucify Marta, who didn't deserve a damn inch of it.

As soon as Walt turned his attention back to the nurse, Ransom struck. He vaulted forward and yanked Walk around by the collar of his sweater, using the momentum to add on to the force of his fist when it made contact with the man's face.

" _ Fuck! _ " his uncle shouted, windmilling back under the force of Ransom's shove, tumbling over the coffee table and into the couch. His wife and son rushed to his side while the rest of the clan, Marta and Fran included, stood by in shock.

Ransom’s eyes met every single one of theirs, his disgust making Meg and Joni shrink back in shame while his mother was as close to impassive as she could get while her own rage simmered under the surface.

"None of you deserve the money. You're all a bunch of hyenas looking for scraps," Ransom spat at them. "Marta's proven herself better than any of you. Two of you were stealing from Granddad to cover your own asses, money that wasn't yours to take."

"Nothing to share, hm, Ransom," his mother said.

"I don't need to be fucking her to know she's going to do more with the inheritance than any of you will."

"Including yours?" Walt challenged, a bruise forming around his left eye and blood pooling from his bent nose.

"I was already not getting it," Ransom shrugged, "and I realized I don't need or want it. I've got my own thing coming, unlike you, Walt, you pathetic excuse for a walking tampon. You might want to talk with your special friends before I make a call about an embezzlement investigation that should be started."

Ransom approached Marta and grabbed her hand, then pulled her along to the front door, grabbing their coats and her purse from the closet along the way. 

"I'll call you tomorrow, Granddad," Ransom threw over his shoulder. "Everyone else can go eat shit like the cockroaches they are. Happy Thanksgiving and to all a good night!"

Ransom didn't let go of Marta's hand until they'd gotten outside. It was for his benefit as much as hers, since he'd go right back inside to bloody Walt's face some more if he didn't use her as an anchor. He stopped and looked her over, took in her misty eyes and the way her breathing was harder than before.

"Marta. Are you going to be okay?" 

"I-I--I don't--" Marta shook her head, looking back at the house as if it could give her the answer she needed. "I don't know what to do. I didn't think--"

"Walt is a desperate hound looking for a scent." Ransom was going to show him what happened to an untrainable dog.

"I told him it was a bad idea," she insisted as he maneuvered her into her cheap choice of outerwear. "Even Meg looked at me like--like--"

"Fuck them, Marta." Ransom shivered and put on his own coat before he took a hold of her face, forcing her to look at him. "Do you hear me? Fuck them."

"But--"

"Fuck. Them. Don't feel bad for those miserable people. This is the one time where it is okay for someone like you to be selfish. So take it."

Ransom checked the porch behind them. They wouldn't have much time before they converged again. "Let me take you home, Marta." 

"No." Marta shook her head. "I can drive myself."

"You're shaking. You cannot drive like this."

Whether it was out of sheer determination to prove Ransom wrong, her anxiety making her reckless, or both, Marta pulled out her keys and went to her car. Her really old and on-its-last-leg mom car.

Ransom had no choice but to stand by, pulling the weather gloves from his pocket and shoving them on, while Marta shoved the keys into her ignition and started the car. It didn't start.

Logically, cold weather plus an old, shitty car usually equaled an engine unable to turn over after a few hours. Ransom knew that, he assumed everyone with common sense knew. Being stubborn or having some kind of faith didn't always equate to a car miraculously working. He waited as she gave it a good few, unsuccessful tries. Then she was slamming her hands against the steering wheel and following suit with her head. 

That's when he strolled the small distance to the car and tapped on her window. "Are you going to let me drive you, or do you need more time for wishful thinking?"

Marta didn't move right away--because she had proven to Ransom lately that she  _ could  _ be stubborn when she wanted to be--then sat up with a deep breath, wiping her eyes. He moved out of the way when she got out, left with Marta's silence as they got into his Beamer and away from Harlan's estate.

Along the way, Ransom observed from the corner of his eye that Marta was keeping her body angled toward her window. Comforting people wasn't Ransom's thing, he wasn't raised with it outside of books or movies, so he didn't know how it actually worked. (That was partly a lie, because now that he thought about it, he'd had to watch Marta do exactly that with Meg and Fran and Harlan since the start of her employment.) 

And the thing was, Ransom  _ wanted _ to be able to comfort her. What happened back at the estate would have added to the hysterics of the situation for him if he hadn't made this personal change. He actually gave a shit about her, cared to know that she was Cuban and not from Brazil or Ecuador or Guatemala or wherever else his family assumed. He wanted her to have the inheritance, not just to spite his family (though that will always remain a part of it). 

Marta Cabrera could beat him and his grandfather at Go, because she wasn’t someone who objectively looked to win or because she had some killer strategy to do so.

She was a Good Person, through and through. Those people didn’t come along all of the time. The kind that would not bend and break did not survive every time.

Ransom wanted her to survive.

"I will keep saying it until it sticks in your head like one of those annoying yoga meditation mantras: fuck my family, Marta."

Through her reflection, he could see the twitching, the tiny smile that was able to win out while she wiped her face again. 

"I should--" she started, but he was not going to hear it.

"No. No, you should not, I don't care which way you thought that sentence should end. Hang them out to dry when the time comes, Marta. That's what they all deserve."

"And you?" she asked.

Ransom answered without a moment’s hesitation, "I meant what I said back there. I don't want or care about my portion anymore. It's not some pride thing, either. I've seen that light at the end of the tunnel that Harlan wanted for me, and I'm not fighting it. I'm flooring the gas pedal and speeding right into it."

Marta shifted in her seat to face him, closely regarding him for a moment. "You're not lying." It wasn't a question. Just a discovery.

"I know it's shocking to a lot of people, but I do have the ability to tell the truth when I feel like it, Cabrera."

A quiet vibrating sound had them both looking to her pocket, and Marta pulled out her phone. Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes looking conflicted when they flew back up to him. "It's Meg," she said, showing him her cracked screen. (That was the first thing she needed to spend money on when Granddad finally kicked the bucket.)

"I would throw your broken excuse for a phone out the window instead of answering it," Ransom told her, "but I know what you're going to do, so don't let me stop you."

It wasn't what she wanted to hear, or it could have been exactly what Marta knew he would say, but she answered the call and turned her back on him once more.

"Meg? I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't be," Ransom said, purposely raising his voice. Marta’s glare wasn't even half-hearted when she threw it at him.

"I swear to you, I didn't want any of it," Marta insisted to his cousin, "I asked him not to do it."

What Ransom wouldn't give for Marta to just put Meg on speakerphone. Meg was good at guilt-tripping, at gas lighting, because she wore her privilege like she was the one who didn't care about being rich. She paraded herself under the guise of someone who wanted equality and fairness to all, but Ransom saw through it. Losing the money from Harlan didn't change the hope she'd find a way back into their grandfather's good graces long enough to receive the money once again.

"I-It's what he wants," Marta said, playing with the sleeve of her sweater. Her face went flat as she glanced at Ransom. "Whatever help you need by then, I'd be willing to give you the money. I wouldn't shut you out."

He didn't have to say it this time for Marta to know what he thought about that.

"Meg, I promise, I--" Marta stopped, then lowered the phone after a moment. "She hung up."

She slumped against the seat, hands scrubbing at her face and through her hair. There was nothing Ransom knew to say that could help her. She considered Meg a friend despite him being aware of who Meg really was. 

The most genuine thing Ransom could do was deflect. Give her something else to think about and leave Meg and the inheritance as something she can contemplate another time. 

"Did you know what my grandfather wanted to talk to me about?" Ransom asked her, slowing down his speed more as they reached the town limits. From here on out, he needed directions from Marta to get to her house. It's not as if he'd been to it before or ever asked Harlan about where she lived. 

It took Marta a few seconds to register what he asked, silently pointing at where he needed to turn. "He told me," she answered.

"Couldn't give a guy some warning?"

"It was important to Harlan so I wasn't going to ruin it for him." She had him make another right, then looked at him. "Or for you."

Ransom flashed her a smirk. "Aw, Cabrera, you cared about it being an important moment for me?"

"You've done a lot, Ransom. You deserved that talk unspoiled."

Leave it to Cabrera to want that for someone who she used to hold in contempt. 

Ransom pulled up to her apartment and set the Beamer in park. Marta didn't make a move to get out past unbuckling her seatbelt, and Ransom didn't push her. He figured she wanted a minute before facing her mom and sister.

"What did you tell him?" she asked, looking at him under the light of the lamp post.

Ransom released the wheel, giving her a half smile. "I told him I wouldn't take the offer."

He didn't know what to expect from her. Maybe a reaction of surprise? What he got instead was her warmest of smiles and eyes alight with joy: "I knew you would," Marta told him.

Ransom wanted to ask her how she knew. Did it matter, when the very fact she believed in his metamorphosis left him feeling like someone was pulling him out of the current and breathing new life into his lungs? Marta and Harlan, and even a slowly-trusting Fran, were giving him a chance. He didn't want to let them down. Harlan's test back at the house proved that he hadn’t, and now Marta was here to confirm it without any tricks. 

"Goodnight, Ransom," she said as she opened the passenger door. "Thank you for the ride."

Ransom wasn't ready for her to leave. "Marta."

She stopped, waiting for whatever meaningless thing he could possibly say. Because she was willing to waste more of her time in his presence. It gave him some hope.

"I'm not going to publish with Blood Like Wine, but if you ever want someone to teach you about the company, or give you advice with how to run it down the line," Ransom said, "you can always ask me."

Realistically, Harlan would probably be the one to do all of that when the time came, but Ransom couldn't resist. Now that he was on her good side and had her approval, it was impossible to not want to give her something in return.

Marta's fingers slid off the handle as she processed the offer, her eyes never leaving him. "I would like that," she said slowly, nodding a bit.

Ransom swallowed down the surge of relief and straightened up, hands going to the wheel and the gear stick. "I'll help you in any way you need," he assured. "Whenever you're feeling up to it."

He froze when her hand settled on his. He slowly turned his head to find her closer than she was before. It made Ransom's heart beat faster than he'd ever felt. 

"Maybe you can give me the first lesson on Saturday," she suggested. "I have the day-off since Alice has a game. You can pick me up after and take me to lunch."

Ransom, the one who was so smooth and capable when it came to getting any woman he wanted, was reduced to a nervous and boyish wreck all because he wanted someone like Marta Cabrera. He nodded slightly so as to not ruin the connection. "I can do that."

"I know you can," she replied, and Ransom's breath left him in a shaky gust. "You're a good boy, Ransom."

Before he could even process what  _ that _ was doing to him, Marta's lips were against his, an inviting promise, and then she was getting out of the car and walking away. Ransom could do nothing but watch her retreat into the apartment complex. 

It was only when he saw her waving through the window that he put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. 

It was going to be a long wait for Saturday. Ransom could already feel it crawling under his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I really appreciate any comments and kudos!


End file.
